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Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues: Cuba’sRedefinition of Blackness
Alan West-Dur�aanNortheastern University
A June 2003 event held at the Apollo Theater was billed as the Hip Hop
Unity Concert, and it featured two groups from Cuba, Obsesion and Doble
Filo, as well as The Roots, Common, Soulive w/J-Live, Kanye West, el
Meswy, and Tomorrowz Weaponz, among others (Figure 1). With opening
words by Harry Belafonte and emceed by Black Thought (Tariq Trotter)
of The Roots, it seemed a perfect confluence of many Afrodiasporic
voices and histories—from one of the great popularizers of calypso who
was an important figure in the Civil Rights movement to socially
conscious rappers from the U.S. and Cuba, in one of Harlem’s historic
theaters that has hosted everyone from Ella Fitzgerald and James Brown to
the Black Panthers and Elijah Muhammad.
The concert seemed to exemplify Paul Gilroy’s notion of the Black
Atlantic, the vast African dialogue born of enslavement, diaspora, disper-
sion, and dispossession. However, the creation, continuities, and disrup-
tions of the Black Atlantic are not merely a reaction to an unspeakable
trauma but an ongoing spirited and inventive ensemble of voices, affirma-
tions, and counter responses. As George Lipsitz points out:
The flow of information and ideas among diasporic people has not
been from Africa outward to Europe and the Americas, but rather
has been a reciprocal self-renewing dialogue in communities char-
acterized by upheaval and change. The story of the African dias-
pora is more than an aftershock of the slave trade, it is an ongoing
dynamic creation. The radicalism of diasporic African culture
comes not only from the contrast between African and Euro-
American values, but also from the utility of exploiting diasporic
choices everywhere—in Africa, as well as in Europe, the Carib-
bean, and the Americas. Just as American and European blacks
have drawn on African traditions to contest Euro-American power
4 Alan West-Dur�aan
relations, Africans have drawn upon cultures of opposition and
strategies of signification developed by diasporic Africans as a
form of struggle on the African continent.
(Lipsitz: 39)
Cuba has traditionally seen its Afro-Cuban history and realities from
within a nationalist framework and, therefore, has often viewed affirmations
of African-ness as divisive or even unpatriotic. This is all the more remark-
able since most combatants, in both the Ten Years War (1868–1878) and
the Spanish-Cuban-American War (1895–1898), were African-Cubans. In
the latter war, with slavery abolished, the estimates run as high as 80%.
What is most important is that dark-skinned Cubans played a major role in
the two independence struggles, their willingness to give their blood for
Cuba is undeniable, and the mambı (a runaway slave or one freed by his or
her masters, who then took up arms against the Spanish) is an iconic figure
in Cuban history and culture. Other historical factors have been offered to
explain this as well: the discourse of its elites (such as Arango y Parreno and
Saco); the existence of a large, free colored population; the nature of the
independence struggle in Cuba, particularly the presence and influence of
Figure 1: Alexey from Obsesion.
Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues 5
cabildos before and after slavery; the African-Caribbean emigrations
(1915–1930); European immigration (1880–1910) meant to whiten the
population; and the 1912 massacre of over 5,000 African-Cubans.
Scholars often cite these factors, plus Cuba’s relaxed attitude toward
miscegenation, the nonexistence of Jim Crow-type segregation, as well as
the absence of a Spanish Creole or patois to account for the lack of a black
nationalism or separatism on the island. Yet Marcus Garvey’s Universal
Negro Improvement Association (UNIA) had fifty-two chapters in Cuba,
the highest of any country outside the U.S., and the Cuban President Garcıa
Menocal met with Garvey in 1921. It is difficult to imagine a U.S. President
meeting with Garvey. Most members of Cuba’s UNIA were West Indian,
that is, Jamaican, Haitian, and other English-speaking West Indians
(Martin, 1983: 69–71). Cubans did not respond enthusiastically to Garvey’s
African repatriation message, but they resonated to his calls for black pride,
self-improvement, and institution building. The UNIA’s brutal repression
under Machado led to its demise (1928–1930). Still, the UNIA’s Cuban
history and its aftermath warrant further study.
Cubans often reiterate that they all belong to the Cuban race, echoing
a famous phrase from Jose Martı: ‘‘A Cuban is more than mulatto, black, or
white.’’ However, Martı’s phrase was insufficient and certainly not Cuba’s
definitive statement on its African roots. In a few decades after Martı’s death,
the Afrocubanismo movement—with all of its appropriations, essentialisms,
exoticisms, and, often, stereotyping—was central to redefining the country’s
musical, artistic, and literary legacy, as well as to offering a more inclusive
definition of national identity. (R. Moore, 1997). That the Afrodiasporic
dialogue was multidirectional can be seen in Langston Hughes’s influence
on Nicolas Guillen (and vice versa), Wifredo Lam’s discovery (or rediscov-
ery) of Afro-Cuban religions via Cubism and the European avant-gardes, as
well as the extraordinary encounters between Machito, Mario Bauza, Chano
Pozo, and Dizzy Gillespie that led to what we now call Latin Jazz.
Afrocubanismo’s exploration and celebration of its African
heritage was—with the exception of Guillen and a few others—mostly
led and promoted by whites such as Alejo Carpentier, Lydia Cabrera,
Mariano Brull, Emilio Ballagas, and Fernando Ortiz. Voices like those of
journalist Gustavo Urrutia (1881–1958) and pharmacist-journalist Romulo
Lachatanere (1909–1952) were certainly heard but never achieved the
canonical status of their white cohorts (Fernandez Robaina, 1994, 2003).
Not surprisingly, out of Afrocubanismo grew Cuba’s celebration of
mestizaje or mulataje, often linked to Guillen’s work, which is discussed
6 Alan West-Dur�aan
further on as I examine rappers who have taken his poetry or ideas and
critically engaged them for a twenty-first century Cuba.
Historically speaking, then, Afro-Cuban culture has long carried on
a conversation that is at least triangular in its broadest scope.
If slavery was a triangular phenomenon (Africa–The Americas–
Europe), with world repercussions, the Afro-Caribbean realm also has
a world scope, central to the Black Atlantic. This Black Atlantic would
include Latin Jazz, Yoruba and Congolese influences in Afro-Cuban
religions, Bahamian storytelling traditions, Curacaoan funeral prac-
tices, U.S. hip-hop influences in Puerto Rico’s rap scene, Trinidadian
cuisine, Fanon’s crucial contributions to the independence of Algeria,
Senegalese musicians making a living playing Cuban dance music,
Bob Marley’s invitation to sing at Zimbabwe’s independence cele-
bration, Cuba’s military prominence in ending apartheid in South
Africa, and Lam illustrating books by Aime Cesaire.
(West-Duran, 2003: xxxi)
Using a more overtly Cuban phraseology, we could say that the
Afrodiasporic dialogue is part of a wider phenomenon of transculturation
(Ortiz, 1995). Generally, the term is used to describe the historical process
of cultural change and creation under terms of subordination and resistance
between European and non-European cultures. But in this case, we must
consider its inter-African dimensions. Slaves transported to the Caribbean
came from different cultures, religions, languages, and social structures and
were Yoruba, Congo, Abakua (Carabalı), Wolof, Ewe-Fon (Arara), Mina,
Mandinga (Fula), Hausa, Ashanti, and Ngola, to name the most common.
Hence, simultaneous to their interaction within a coerced milieu and under
severe exploitation, they were also forging an inter-African transculturation
with their shipmates. This element of transculturation is frequently over-
looked and, unfortunately, exceedingly difficult to study.
In examining Cuban hip-hop, the double diasporic elements of
U.S. hip-hop come to the fore. Among the pioneers of U.S. rap are
performers like Afrika Bambaataa, Grandmaster Flash, and Kool DJ
Herc, all from Caribbean backgrounds. Equally significant was the influ-
ence of Puerto Rican disc jockeys (DJs) (Charlie Chase) who were active
in rap’s South Bronx emergence, as well as the extraordinary boricua
presence in the evolution of break dancing (Rock Steady Crew, The
Furious Rockers, The New York City Breakers, and others). Clearly, the
Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues 7
Jamaican sound systems of the 1950s (Coxsone Dodd and Duke Reid),
Prince Buster, and dub practitioners like Big Youth, U-Roy, King Tubby,
and Lee Perry, not to mention dub poets like Linton Kwesi Johnson and
Michael Smith, were also influential in the origins of rap. The heavy
bass and percussion, the repetition of certain rhythmic elements, the
rhythms and rhymes of the vocal line, or DJs grabbing the mike to whip
up a crowd are all traits within a dynamic and powerful transnational
Caribbean and Afrodiasporic dialogue (Hebdige, 1987: 136–48; Potter,
1995: 36–40).
This Afrodiasporic conversation (African-American, Jamaican,
and Puerto Rican) found a kindred voice in Cuba’s black musical scene.
The island’s Afro-musical traditions are deep-rooted, and hence, Cuban
rappers have drawn on Yoruba chants, rumba, mambo, son, and the
guaracha to fashion their own and original Cuban rap. The Spanish
language also lends itself to rapping, with its ingenious word play and
emphasis on rhyme. Non-rappers are eager to use rap as part of their
music, as can be seen in recent recordings by Cachaıto Lopez, Celia Cruz,
Omar Sosa, Orlando ‘‘Maraca’’ Valle, even the Orquesta Aragon.
Figure 2: Cuba Rap Festival, 2003.
8 Alan West-Dur�aan
Cuba’s rap scene is firmly established with over five hundred
groups on the island (according to rapper/producer Pablo Herrrera) and
thousands attending its annual festival (now in its ninth year, 2003) in
mid-August, held in Alamar, and now in other locations as well (Figure 2).
In the more recent festivals, there have been roundtable discussions on
Cuban, U.S., Latin American, and European hip-hop. Currently, there is a
person responsible for overseeing the rap scene in Cuba’s Ministry of
Culture, Ariel Fernandez—a development which was initially regarded
with a degree of disapproval by the authorities.
Indeed, in August 2003, the Cuban Ministry of Culture launched
Cuba’s first hip-hop magazine, Movimiento, that has an interesting mix of
interviews with groups, song lyrics, analytic-theoretical essays, and comics,
as well as a history of rap written by Kurtis Blow (Figures 3 and 4). Still,
Figure 3: Movimiento magazine cover with Anonimo Consejo.
Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues 9
the venues for the main concerts during the festival were in two distant
places, Alamar and the Salon Rosado of the Tropical. The first is 25 minutes
east of Havana; the second is in the extreme western part of the city. Given
the transportation problems in Cuba, this represents a major obstacle for most
Cubans. The other venue was the Cafe Cantante, a much better location but
which barely has room for a couple of hundred people. Also, during concerts
or roundtable sessions, which lasted two full days, CDs by rappers were
basically sold in the hallways, hawked by group members themselves.
Having a table with everyone’s work available seemed like a logical solution,
but this strategy was not adopted. These points are made to indicate that
Figure 4: Back cover of Movimiento with Hermanos de Causa.
10 Alan West-Dur�aan
while the Cuban state has accepted hip-hop, there are some logistical,
financial, and creative issues that remain unresolved. The logistical limita-
tions seem to indicate acceptance with an undercurrent of containment, of
making sure that things do not grow too much, which, in a sense, contradicts
the name of the magazine (Movimiento [Movement]) the state sponsors and
publishes.1
My interest in this article is not to give a history of Cuban rap2 but
instead, by invoking the concepts of a proliferating and creative Afrodias-
poric (Black Atlantic) dialogue, to argue that Cuba is involved in a
redefinition of how it has traditionally viewed blackness by using a
hybrid essentialism that denies a pure or monolithic concept of identity,
yet, nonetheless, puts forth certain ideas of Cuban-ness and African-
ness that are grounded geographically, culturally, and spiritually in the
island.
As previously mentioned, Cuba’s Afrocubanismo movement
offered a mixed race identity for the Cuban nation, a cultural mulataje
that gives Cuba its unique identity. Implicit in this definition is that
through continued race mixing, the island will become lighter, not
darker. Miscegenation was (and still is for many) seen as a whitening
process.
Guillen (1902–1989), one of the island’s great poetic and cultural
figures, was a major exponent of Afro-Antillean poetry, along with
Damas, Cesaire, Senghor, Pales Matos, and Manuel del Cabral, to name
only some of the most celebrated figures. Guillen’s ‘‘La balada de los dos
abuelos’’ (‘‘The Ballad of the Two Grandfathers’’) is probably the most
oft-cited poem that expresses the union of white and black Cubans as a
symbol of cubanıa:
they raise their sturdy heads;
both of equal size
beneath the high stars;
both of equal size,
a Black longing, a White longing,
both of equal size,
they scream, dream, weep, sing.
They dream, weep, sing.
They weep, sing.
Sing!
(Guillen, 1975: 71)
Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues 11
On another occasion, Guillen was even more explicit:
And the spirit of Cuba is mulatto, and it is from spirit, not the skin,
that we derive our definitive color. Someday it will be called
‘‘Cuban color’’
(Perez-Sarduy and Stubbs, 1993: 235)
Guillen’s poems and statements have achieved canonical status in
Cuba from a literary, racial, and political point of view—he was the
national poet of the island for decades and the head of the Writer’s
Union (UNEAC) as well.
Three different rap groups have taken a fresh (in all senses of the
word) look at Guillen from three different perspectives: race, gender, and
politics. The original poems are from three different periods: ‘‘Quirino’’, from
Songoro Cosongo (1931); ‘‘La Muralla’’, from La paloma de vuelo popular
(1958); and ‘‘Tengo’’, from Tengo (1964). Cuarta Imagen’s ‘‘La Muralla’’
uses Guillen’s poem of the same title. In his poem, Guillen sets up an
archetypal situation of a wall that has been built by all, by white hands and
black hands, to let in the good and shut out evil. Much of the poem is
structured as a dialogue or as a series of questions that are answered. There
is a knock, someone asks who is there, and a response: for the rose, the
carnation, the dove, the laurel, myrrh, and mint, the friend’s heart, the night-
ingale, or the flower, the wall is opened; for the colonel’s saber, the scorpion,
the centipede, poison, the dagger, and the serpent’s tooth, the wall is closed.
La Muralla
por/by Nicolas Guillen
Para hacer esta muralla,
traigame todas las manos:
los negros, sus manos negras,
los blancos, sus blancas manos.
Ay,
To build this wall
bring me all the hands
from blacks, their black hands
from whites, their white hands
Ay,
una muralla que vaya
desde la playa hasta el monte
desde le monte hasta la playa,
bien,
alla sobre el horizonte.
A wall stretching
from shore to summit
from summit to shore
way over on the horizon
—¡Tun, tun! Knock, knock!
12 Alan West-Dur�aan
—¿Quien es? Who’s there?
—Una rosa y un clavel… A rose and a carnation
—¡Abre la muralla! Open the wall!
—¡Tun, tun! Knock, knock!
—¿Quien es? Who’s there?
—El sable del coronel… The colonel’s cutlass
—¡Cierra la muralla! Close the wall!
—¡Tun, tun! Knock, knock!
—¿Quien es? Who’s there?
—La paloma y el laurel… The dove and the laurel.
—¡Abre la muralla! Open the wall!
—¡Tun, tun! Knock! Knock!
—¿Quien es? Who’s there?
—El alacran y el ciempies The scorpion and the centipede
—¡Cierre la muralla! Close the wall!
[…]
(Guillen, 1974: 170–1; translation, AWD)
Guillen’s poem envisions a utopian space, a society to be built where
the good is included and the bad is excluded. The wall runs from ‘‘el monte
hasta la playa’’ (from the hills to the sea); hence, it is a symbolic walled city or
country. The central image is one of personal, political, racial, metaphysical,
and even natural unity, with many of the poem’s images being of plants,
flowers, animals, and the landscape. The poem is from the pre-Revolution
period and yet seems to evoke the future society Guillen yearned for.
Imagen’s ‘‘La Muralla’’ is a radical departure in many ways. The
eight lines that begin and end Guillen’s poem are reduced to four, and the
four omitted are those that make reference to the unity of black and white
hands:
La Muralla
por/by Cuarta Imagen
[…] […]
no tengo fama pero algo
me ha tocado
tengo el publico que Dios me
ha mandado
I have no fame, but I do have
an audience that God gave me
like a Cuban cimarron with
Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues 13
como un cubano cimarron
con el machete
a ver cual es el brete
si no presiento miedo
ante latigo o el cadete
his machete
So let’s see what’s going down
No fear of the lash,
the soldier’s wrath
[…] […]
hoy como ayer
se que me quisieran verme
desaparecer
desde que volvı a nacer,
volvı a crecer
he vuelto a rehacer
lo que yo siempre quise ser
vamos a ver
Today, like in the past
I know you wanted me to
disappear,
but I was born anew and
grew, I’m here
remade myself
into what I want to be,
let’s see
si no se han dado cuenta
soy cubano
in case you didn’t
notice I’m Cuban.
[…] […]
quiero una muralla que vaya I want a wall stretching
desde el monte hasta la playa From summit to shore
desde la playa hasta el monte From shore to summit
alla por el horizonte. There, on the horizon.
(Cuarta Imagen, in Various Groups, Cuban Hip Hop All Stars—Volume 1,
track no. 8; translation, AWD)
The song, with a thick, round bass sound, makes several references
to the slave past and Afro-Cuban history. Instead of black and white
hands, the song mentions a cimarron (a runaway slave) with a machete
in his hands. A little further on in the song, we find a fascinating synthesis
of personal and collective histories that speak to both a history of struggle
and history of overcoming invisibility: ‘‘in case you didn’t notice I’m
Cuban.’’ The reference is to being black, but the affirmation is couched
within citizenship and nationality (Cuban).
Further on in the song, an African identity is expressed more
overtly. Reference is made to Siete Rayos (or Nsasi), from the kimpugulu,
or palero pantheon, and whose equivalent in Regla de Ocha is Chango, the
orisha of lightning and music. Quickly, the singers claim their Yoruba
traditions, emphasizing again their Cuban-ness (‘‘soy Yoruba lucumı,
como soy Yoruba de aquı de Cuba’’). It is followed by, perhaps, the most
14 Alan West-Dur�aan
striking verses in the song: ‘‘Desde Cuba suba mi llanto Yoruba/que suba el
alegre llanto Yoruba/que sale de mı’’ (‘‘May my Yoruba weeping rise up
from Cuba/may my joyful Yoruba weeping/rise out of me’’). What makes
these lines so effective is the juxtaposition of ‘‘alegre llanto Yoruba.’’
Entiendan que la voz de
siete rayos ya llego
Understand, the voice
of Nsasi arrived
Y se quedo And stayed
Yoruba soy yoruba lucumı I’m Yoruba, Yoruba lucumı
Como soy un yoruba de
aquı de Cuba
And since I’m Yoruba
from here, Cuba
Desde Cuba suba mi
llanto Yoruba
may my Yoruba weeping
rise up from Cuba
que suba el alegre llanto may the joyful Yoruba
weeping
Yoruba que sale de mı rise out of me.
(Cuarta Imagen, ‘‘La Muralla’’; translation, AWD)
This combination of joy and sadness affixed to the Yoruba, within
a Cuban context, is such an astoundingly rich image, further buttressed by
the fact that canto (song or chant) is what you would normally expect to
find there, not to mention that canto and llanto rhyme in Spanish. In a
sense, the missing rhyme creates a double rhyme—one present, the other
absent—that evokes ancestral spirits. The phrase is made all the more
poignant by previous lyrics in the song where they claim that time has
transpired and there are no longer any black slaves, but still there is a
lingering ‘‘Afrocuban Indian effect’’ (vigencia) that is present.
Now, Cuban music in general and rap in particular are constantly
making references to Afro-Cuban culture and religion. One might ask
what makes rap’s references to this heritage different from, say, a more
established salsa group like Los Van Van’s use of the orishas and Regla de
Ocha in ‘‘Soy Todo’’. No doubt, the Special Period (Cuba’s economic
decline from 1990 to 1995 after the collapse of the Soviet Union) and its
aftermath saw a flourishing interest in Afro-Cuban religious practices. The
ideological and economic foundering of the regime made many Cubans
seek other beliefs that had a long tradition on the island, be it Catholicism,
Regla de Ocha, Regla de Palo, or Abakua. Raperos or rappers have
definitely embraced these traditions, either as believers or as a way of
Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues 15
reaffirming some of the most profound roots of Cuban culture. It is
interesting to see how often the raperos reiterate their cubanıa, as if to
prove to non-raperos that their nationalist credentials are intact.
Using these Afro-Cuban affirmations as proof of cubanıa lends the
raperos a credence they need for other purposes: to engage a critique of
Cuban society without being viewed as counterrevolutionaries. While
some rappers, like their U.S. counterparts, can spout forth endless paeans
to partying, sex, and hanging out (S.B.S.’s ‘‘Mami dame carne’’ comes to
mind), many others are more socially conscious and have songs that deal
with the revolution, racial disparities, prostitution, street life, poverty,
domestic violence, obsession with money and class differences, not to
mention the lack of spiritual and ethical values.
But perhaps one should look at Cuban rap and race bearing in mind
the ‘‘new cultural politics of difference’’ (West, 1993: 3–32). These new
practices are not revolutionary, in that they call for an overthrow or
complete dismantling of a system, nor are they ‘‘oppositional in contesting
the mainstream (or malestream) for inclusion, nor transgressive in the
avant-garde sense of shocking conventional bourgeois audiences’’ (West,
1993: 4). Instead of favoring grand schemes of transformation, these new
practices try to engage a politics steeped in everyday life, somewhat
similar to classic anarchist thought, or in the areas we know of as civil
society.
[The new cultural politics of difference] embraces the distinct
articulations of talented (and usually privileged) contributors
to culture who desire to align themselves with demoralized,
demobilized, depoliticized, and disorganized people in order to
empower and enable social action, and, if possible, to enlist
collective insurgency for the expansion of freedom, democracy,
and individuality.
(West, 1993: 4)
West’s comments need to be qualified in a Cuban context. In the case of
rap, the talented contributors to culture are not the privileged who want to
align themselves with the demoralized. Raperos either were themselves
those demoralized, disorganized elements of society at one point, or still
live among those marginalized sectors where this demoralization con-
stantly surrounds them. They are using rap as a form of social pleasure
and action for the expansion of civil society. This is all the more true in
16 Alan West-Dur�aan
light of Chuck D’s comment that ‘‘Rap is black people’s CNN.’’ In Cuba,
where the media is state controlled and heavily censored, rap (and Cuban
rock to a lesser degree) is not only African-Cubans’ CNN, but every
Cuban’s CNN.
Two other refinements need to be made on West’s words. Earlier I
did not include demobilized and depoliticized: Cuba is a highly politicized
and mobilized society, even if those processes are currently engineered by
the state. The issue, then, is a politicization and mobilization that is not
tied to the state or party ideology, even if many Cubans do share the ideals
expressed by these two official institutions. Cuban rappers are functioning
as a countervailing voice, and the government knows this, which is why
since 1999 it has recognized and tried to co-opt their activities and concerts.
Moreover, in the final sentence, we read ‘‘collective insurgency for
the expansion of freedom, democracy, and individuality.’’ To these three,
we should add equality, an issue that comes up in many Cuban rap songs,
sometimes but not always viewed from the prism of race. Collective
insurgency seems not only a stretch within a U.S. context, but even more
doubtful within a Cuban one, where it has connotations of overthrowing the
regime, and whether Cuban raperos want to do this is almost impossible to
ascertain, but it most certainly is not expressed in their lyrics.
A Cuban ‘‘new cultural politics of difference’’ would thus entail
the following: an expansion of the public sphere where social problems
and issues of race can be expressed more openly and critically, a new
idiom (or vernacular) for conducting politics that is neither insurrectionary
nor escapist, and a redefinition of what it means to be black in Cuba. The
redefinition is complex, because in part it is Afrocentric and essentialist,
and at the same time it challenges homogenous, universalist, and mono-
lithic ideas of identity and nationality.
More importantly, one could see the issue as one of identity and
one of rights. Enrique Patterson has persuasively argued that Cuban blacks
are less interested in issues of identity (what are we?) and more interested in
matters of citizenship (what are our rights, human and civil?) (Patterson,
1996: 67). Patterson’s enunciation is one of emphasis, not an either/or
proposition. As long as Cuban blacks are subordinated socially without
full participation, they will be more concerned with rights. In Cuba’s
history, the two (identity and rights) are intimately connected, and given
the current regime’s one-party system as well as the undeniable demo-
graphic reality of the island’s non-white population, rights are powerful
issue for Cubans, black, brown, or white.
Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues 17
Many rap songs refer to racism, a problem that ostensibly the
regime had solved after the revolution. After 1959, the government banned
all forms of public discrimination, which included the de-privatization
of beaches, as well as the establishment of complete public access to
schools, workplace, and health care system. Under the banner of ideo-
logical and patriotic unity—and faced with the increasing hostility
of the U.S. government—Cuba also dismantled Afro-Cuban clubs and
mutual aid societies. While blacks in Cuba made significant social, educa-
tional, and cultural advances, persistent and subtler forms of discrimin-
ation permeated political institutions, the media, and the tourism industry.
The Special Period hit Cuba’s lower classes exceptionally hard, affecting
the brown and black populations, who, in many cases, did not have family
in the U.S. who could help them out. ‘‘Polls conducted in the mid-1990s
revealed that 85 percent of all Cubans felt that prejudice was rampant and
that 58 percent of whites considered blacks to be less intelligent, 69
percent believed that blacks did not have the same ‘values’ or ‘decency’
as whites, and 68 percent were opposed to interracial marriage’’ (cited by
Fernandez Robaina, 2003). After almost forty years of revolution, these
are dismaying figures indeed.
These numbers are all the more remarkable given Cuba’s formal
commitment to ending racial discrimination, its involvement in the liberation
struggles of Africa (Angola, South Africa, Namibia, Mozambique, and the
Congo), Castro’s public admission that Cuba was (and is) an African-Latin
nation, and its support for the New Jewel Movement in Grenada (1979–1983)
under Maurice Bishop, a revolutionary experiment inspired by the Black
Power movements of the 1960s and 1970s. Many Cuban doctors served in
Africa, and many Africans or African-Caribbeans studied in Cuban schools.
Cuba’s revolutionary internationalism led the Cuban government to create
and support the Tri-Continental Congress and the Organization for
Solidarity of the Peoples of Asia, Africa and Latin America (OSPAAL)
from 1966 to the 1980s. Within the latter’s publications, Cubans were
exposed to the writings of Frantz Fanon, Amilcar Cabral, Agostinho Neto,
Kwame Nkrumah, and other leaders and theoreticians of the African (as
well as Asian and Latin American) liberation struggle, and if there is any
contemporary non-Cuban figure on the island who is viewed as a hero it is
Nelson Mandela.
Cubans in the 1960s were exposed to the harsh realities of U.S.
racism by the Cuban state through television and other media, in part out
of solidarity with the Civil Rights struggle, but also to ideologically
18 Alan West-Dur�aan
reinforce among its non-white population that leaving Cuba for the U.S.
was fraught with peril if you were black. Many Cubans still remember
Santiago Alvarez’s cinematic poetic collage ‘‘Now!’’ (1965), a seven-
minute documentary featuring the voice of Lena Horne that portrays the
often brutal side of desegregation struggles in the South. Cubans were
provided much information about Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, the
Angela Davis case, and the Black Panthers. Many Panthers sought by U.S.
authorities were given asylum or some type of safe haven on the island.
Assata Shakur still lives in Cuba and has become friendly with Cuban
rappers, offering support and advice on Afrodiasporic history and culture.
Perhaps these black realities—whether consciously or not—rein-
forced certain racial attitudes among Cubans and, from the government’s
perspective, played into their hands by having Cuban blacks believe that they
were better off than their U.S. brethren who were being jailed, harassed, or
made victims of violence and poverty. This was even more so with their
African brothers and sisters, who suffered under much greater physical
misery under either colonial or apartheid regimes. Add to this the nearby
experience of Haiti, which under the opportunistic noirisme philosophy of
Francois Duvalier created one of the most brutal regimes in Caribbean
history (1957–1971). Never mind that Duvalier’s glorification of a peasant
past, his manipulation of vodoun, his skewed interpretation of the country’s
racial rivalry (between mulattoes and blacks), and his racial essentialism
were used to buttress a corrupt and repressive government. For Cubans
(black, brown, or white), it was a reminder that an appeal to militant
Afrocentricity was an agenda fraught with peril if not catastrophe (Howe,
1998: 84–5). Naturally, Haiti-bashing has a long Cuban (and Caribbean)
pedigree that dates back to its independence as being the first (and only)
country to be liberated by a slave revolt (1791–1804), which sent shock
waves throughout the region’s planter class. Recall the slurs decades later
against Antonio Maceo, accused of wanting to turn Cuba into ‘‘another
Haiti.’’
To be fair, most Cubans, raperos included, would not lay the blame for
racism on the Revolution: Everyone understands that racism has a long history
in the country, given the legacy of centuries of slavery. But the central tenet of
revolutionary ideology is to create a classless society of equality and social and
economic progress and, in doing so, end racism, sexism, and exploitation.
Whether expressed directly or indirectly, this infrapolitics of the dominated,
these ‘‘hidden transcripts of resistance’’ (Scott, 1990: 14, 198), are being
expressed by Cuban raperos as part of the ‘‘new cultural politics of difference.’’
Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues 19
Guillen’s ‘‘Tengo’’ alludes to this utopian and classless promise,
and Hermanos de Causa’s version from 1999 is a response to the pledges
made by the revolution and reflects impatience after forty years of
alleged social transformation. Guillen’s poem makes reference to
‘‘Juan sin nada’’ (Juan nobody, or Juan without a thing) from the past
and a ‘‘Juan con todo’’ (Juan with everything) that has come into being,
thanks to the revolution. Guillen does not mention the revolution or
socialism or Fidel Castro as such in the poem, which makes it all the
more effective. Instead, through the abundant repetition (almost always
at the beginning of a line) of the word tengo (I have), he recreates one of
the most common tropes of the Revolution, the before and after. Before
the Revolution, he could not talk to a bank administrator in Spanish, or,
being black, he could not go into certain bars or clubs or have work and
earn enough to eat, or not suffer from the repression from the rural guard,
or go to certain beaches, usually the best ones, because they belonged to
private beach or yacht clubs. The poem ends: ‘‘Tengo vamos a ver,/tengo
lo que tenıa que tener.’’ (‘‘I have, let me see/I have what I had to have.’’)
If signifying involves repetition with a difference, then Hermanos
de Causa’s ‘‘Tengo’’ is signifying in overdrive (Potter, 1995: 25–54).
Signifying refers to an improvisational ability of rhyme, rhythm, and
verbal play, deeply embedded in Afrodiasporic traditions, also known as
riffing, specifying, or the dozens in African-American culture, or talking
nonsense in the West Indies. Honed to perfection under conditions of
slavery and post-emancipation adversity, verbal power substitutes for
economic or political power and its critical edge, particularly against the
powerful, is aimed at ‘‘the formation of a community rather than an
expression of dominance’’ (Mason, 1997: 665). In literary theory, Henry
Louis Gates developed the concept to analyze intertextual revisions of
canonical works or genres (Gates, 1992: 285–321). By repetition and copy-
ing, but also through parody and irony, the previous work is made to serve
new aims that debunk notions of authority, race, honor, and power.
Cuba’s equivalent to signifying is choteo, an irreverent humor that
mocks everything, where nothing is sacred. Like signifying, it is imbued
with a democratic spirit in trying to equalize the powerful and the power-
less through humor and mockery. But choteo expresses a powerful disen-
chantment with leaders and institutions, stripping away any pretense at
public legitimacy. This negative aspect of choteo led Jorge Manach to
write his famous Indagacion del choteo (An Inquiry on Choteo, 1928),
saying that it had eroded all faith in public life in Cuba. Unlike Manach,
20 Alan West-Dur�aan
then one could say that Cuban raperos practice ‘‘choteo con conciencia’’
(‘‘choteo with social consciousness’’).
Gates inevitably links signifying to trickster figures, drawing a
parallel between the Signifying Monkey and the orisha Elegua (Eshu) of
the Cuban (and Yoruba) Regla de Ocha. Elegua opens or closes the roads
(and crossroads), carrying the messages to the other orishas. Often playful,
Elegua likes to play tricks of fate on others. Only he knows past, present,
and future without the need for divination systems: Elegua is the ultimate
signifier of time, fate, and our lives. In Cuba, he must be propitiated before
all the other orishas. Through their signifying skills, Cuban raperos
become verbal Eleguas.
In the Hermanos de Causa version of ‘‘Tengo,’’ the only element they
sample is the repetition of the verb tengo, but instead of using it as a signifier
with a positive valence, it refers to its opposite: what they don’t have. In this
sense, Hermanos de Causa draw on an old rhetorical strategy often employed
by the guaracha genre. In a guaracha from the 1940s, Bienvenido J.
Gutierrez uses the same device to write a satirical song about how much
work women do, which contradicts the title and refrain of the song:
No hace na la mujer That woman don’t do nothing
por/by Bienvenido J. Gutierrrez
Por la manana temprano Early in the morn
Compra jabon pa’ lava She buys soap for the wash
Hace el almuerzo enseguida Makes lunch in a dash
Y se pone a almidonar She sprinkles the starch
No acaba bien la comida She eats on the run
Coge la ropa a planchar, And begins to iron
Las medias no estan zurcidas Socks aren’t mended
Las tiene que remendar She’s gotta have’em darned
Ya esta la noche prendida It’s deep into the night
Y un vestido que hay
que hacer
A dress needs to be made
Con mucho sueno y rendida She’s sleepy and tired
Pero tiene que coser but has to sew the attire
De la maquina pa’l lecho From sewing machine to bed
Cerca del amanecer Just before the rising sun
Su pobre cuerpo desecho Her weary body undone
Y no hace na’ la mujer. That woman don’t do nothing.
Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues 21
Hermanos de Causa begin the song with references to Cuban
national symbols: the flag, the island’s emblem, the palm tree, and the
tocororo, which is the national bird, so chosen not only because it is quite
common throughout the island, but because its blue head, white breast, and
red lower body are the colors of the Cuban flag, and for its reputation of not
being able to live in captivity. But in the third verse, we realize that this will
not be a remake of Guillen: ‘‘Tengo aspiraciones sin tener lo que hace falta’’
(‘‘Got aspirations without having what I need’’). The song continues with
references to a decaying Havana and then into a litany of problems: social
indifference, racism, long hours of work and poor pay, consumer goods that
are not affordable (because they must be bought in dollars), places that are
off limits for Cubans but available to tourists, and lack of certain rights and
freedoms, as exemplified in the verse ‘‘Tengo libertad entre un parentesis de
hierro’’ (‘‘Got freedom in a parenthesis of steel’’).
Tengo
por/by Hermanos de Causa
Tengo una bandera, un
escudo, un tocororo
Got a flag, coat of arms,
a tocororo
Tambien una palmera, un
mapa sin tesoro
Got a palm tree, a map
without a treasure
Tengo aspiraciones sin
tener lo que hace falta
Got aspirations without
having what I need
Tengo mas o menos la
medida exacta
I have (more or less)
the true measure
Cronica que compacta Chronicle that tightens
Polemica que impacta Polemics that frighten
Pasan los anos y la
situacion sigue intacta
Years go by, things still
the same
El tiempo no perdona Time shows no mercy or shame
Preguntale a La Habana Just ask Havana, again
Que ahorita esta en la lona Against the ropes in pain
A nadie le importa nada Nobody cares about jack
Tengo una raza oscura y
discriminada
Discriminated ’cause
I’m black
Tengo una jornada que me
exije y no me da nada
Got a job with big
demands and no pay
22 Alan West-Dur�aan
Tengo tantas cosas que no
puedo ni tocarlas
Got so much that
I can’t touch.
Tengo instalaciones que no
puedo ni pisarlas
Got all these places
I can’t go in
Tengo libertad entre un
parentesis de hierro
Got freedom in a
parenthesis of steel
Tengo tantos derechos sin
provechos que me
encierro
Got so many rights
I don’t enjoy that I’m better
off alone
Tengo lo que tengo sin
tener lo que he tenido
Got what I have
without having what I’ve had
Tienes que reflexionar y
asimilar el contenido
Got to think, take in
the content.
Tengo una conducta
fracturada por la gente
Got a demeanor filtered
through so many
Tengo de elemento, tengo
de conciente
Got some funky elements,
but I don’t scare
Tengo el fundamento sin
tener antecedentes
I’m politically aware,
I got the initiation
Tengo mi talento y eso es
mas que suficiente
Got the foundation, got
no citations,
Got my talent, and
that’s more than good enough.
(Hermanos de Causa in Various Groups, Cuban Hip Hop All Stars—
Volume 1, track no. 3; translation, AWD)
At first glance, the song could be seen as a scathing attack on
revolutionary promises not being delivered and a blatant rejection of the
government and its policies, but there is considerably more complexity
to the matter. The song also reaffirms a strong criticism of material
values (‘‘No confundas tener mas con tener cualidades’’; ‘‘Don’t confuse
having more with being better’’), consumerism (‘‘Mientras mas tienes
mas quieres y siempre mas querras/Mientras mas tu tengas mas ridıculo
seras’’; ‘‘The more you have the more and more you want/The more you
have the more ridiculous you’ll be’’), and social indifference (‘‘El hecho
de que tengas mas no te hace ser mejor que yo’’; ‘‘Having more doesn’t
mean you’re better than me’’), thus echoing one of the central tenets of
the regime’s anti-consumerist philosophy.
Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues 23
Other elements brought into the song are philosophical, psycholo-
gical, and even religious:
Tengo una conducta
fracturada por la gente
Got a demeanor filtered
through so many
Tengo de elemento, tengo de
conciente
Got some funky elements,
but I don’t scare
Tengo fundamento sin tener
antecedente
I’m politically aware, I got
the initiation got the
foundation, got no citations
This behavior split or fractured by other people has an almost Lacanian
mirror-stage ring to it, but truly it is an expression of how one’s con-
sciousness is formed by the gaze and consciousness of others (and the Big
Other), its socially constructed nature. And words like elemento and
fundamento, conciente, and antecedente have both philosophical and
street-wise connotations: Element may refer to nature’s four elements,
but elemento can have a negative connotation as in ‘‘bad element’’; sin
tener antecedente can mean new or original but also ‘‘not having a (police)
record.’’ Both conciente and fundamento have philosophical, educational,
and political meanings as well, with conciente referring to political or
social consciousness and fundamento, speaking not only to foundations (of
knowledge), but also of being a santero. Hence, in three short lines,
Hermanos de Causa reveal their ‘‘situated knowledge’’: they can ‘‘drop
science’’ from street experience, from their educational training, their
politico-philosophical background and their religious dialogue with
the orishas (Figure 5). Cuban rap’s social and political context, the educa-
tion level of its creators, and the musical and linguistic ingenuity of
its practitioners show that it is a deeply textured cultural ensemble of
relations conversant with both Cuban and non-Cuban history, culture, and
music.
In fact, the song shares with it a view of race that is similar to a
well-known song called ‘‘¿Quien tiro la tiza?’’ (‘‘Who Threw the
Chalk?’’). In both cases, race is also being seen from the prism of social
class, and in this regard, the songs share commonalities with U.S. ghetto-
centric rap (Ice T, Ice Cube, N.W.A.) that has often scathingly attacked
the black middle class or bourgeoisie. While this critique reveals the
divisions within African-American society (bourgeois blacks, buppies,
24 Alan West-Dur�aan
baps, bohos, b-boys, and ‘‘niggas’’), in Cuba it points to a whitening effect
that occurs because of social class. It also highlights a locale rarely alluded
to in U.S. rap: the classroom or school.
‘‘¿Quien tiro la tiza?’’ features two black students in class, one the
son of a doctor, the other of a builder or construction worker. Someone
throws a piece of chalk at the teacher, and when asked who the culprit
was, they point out ‘‘el negro ese’’ (that black kid). El negro ese certainly
has racist connotations, but it is further complicated by class issues,
when it clearly (and ironically) suggests that the culprit could not be the
doctor’s son.
¿Quien tiro la tiza?
por/by Molano MC
¿Quien tiro la tiza? Who threw the chalk?
El negro ese It was that black kid. Yes he did.
¿Quien tiro la tiza? Who threw the chalk?
Figure 5: Soandry (Hermanos de Causa) with author.
Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues 25
No fue el hijo del doctor, Not the doctor’s kid.
No, porque el hijo del doctor No, because the doctor’s son
Es el mejor. Is the best one.
(J. Campbell, aka Molano MC; translation, AWD)
The song draws this class distinction by referring to the type of
cologne that each student wears. The working-class kid has to use baby
perfume, while his upper class counterpart can presumably afford to use
European cologne, as well as wear Adidas footwear. In a country where
consumer goods are scarce, these details loom much larger in the Cuban
social imagination than they would in the U.S.
colonia de bebito encima A little sprinkle of baby cologne.
En cambio los hijos que
papi mima
But daddy’s boy, all primped up
iban con Adidas With his Adidas,
medias deportivas y una
perfumada
And sport socks, all perfumed up
nada que ver con la mıa Nothing like mine
mira, o sea, pa’ quı na mas,
mucho olor
So you see, smelling
nice and fresh.
solo tenıamos en comun el
color.
All we shared was the color
of our flesh.
Hence, despite the commonality of dark skin, class differences are
going to condemn the son of the laborer to suffer the blame. Also of note
is how the song uses the issue of cologne, which also conjures up the racist
assumptions that are related to smell.3
Another Guillen poem, ‘‘Quirino con su Tres,’’ also highlights the
signifying nature of Cuban rap in sampling, quoting, and reworking Cuban
traditions, Afro-, and musical.
Quirino con Su Tres
por/by Nicolas Guillen
¡Quirino Quirino
con su tres! with his tres!
26 Alan West-Dur�aan
La bemba grande, la
pasa dura,
Thick lips, nappy hair,
Sueltos los pies With good moves
Y una mulata que se
derrite de sabrosura…
And a mulatta melting from his
charms
¡Quirino Quirino
con su tres! with his tres!
Luna redonda que lo
vigila cuando regresa
Round moon looks over him
Dando traspies As he wobbles on home
Jipi en la chola, camisa
fresa…
Panama hat on his head, bright red
shirt.
¡Quirino Quirino
con su tres! with his tres!
Tibia accesoria para la cita; His black mother, Paula Valdes,
La madre—negra Paula
Valdes—Suda, envejece,
busca la frita…
cool accessory for the scene,
She sweats, grows old, looks
for grub…
¡Quirino
con su tres!
Quirino
with his tres!
(Guillen, 1974: 46; translation, AWD)
The Guillen poem is like a snapshot or a watercolor sketch. The poem centers
on Quirino, a tres player who is popular with the public and the ladies (first
stanza) and who loves to party and dress stylishly (second stanza). The third
and final stanza mentions his mother, Paula Valdes, who sweats and works
hard to have food on the table. Made into a song by Emilio Grenet, it was
popularized by the great Afro-Cuban singer Mercedes Valdez, who was
considered one of the great akpwonas (sacred singers of Yoruba chants).
Valdez was also a collaborator and informant of Fernando Ortiz, the multi-
faceted scholar who dedicated most of his life’s work to the study of Afro-
Cuban culture.
Instinto, a group of three women rappers (Janet Dıaz Poey, Doricep
Agramonte Ballester, and Yudith Porto Alfonso), founded in 1996 (but
since disbanded), take on the heavyweights of the poetic, musical,
and Afro-Cuban traditions of the island with funky and sensual aplomb
(Figure 6).
Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues 27
Kirino con su tres
por/by Instinto
Caballero que ha pasado Guys, what’s happened?
El tiempo corre y no le han
cantado
Time’s gone by, and no song to
him
Kirino que han gozado Kirino and those who enjoyed him
Con ese ritmo inigualado With that unbeatable rhythm
Lo han escuchado en todo
lado
Heard all over,
En las Mercedes y hasta en
Santiago
in Mercedes and Santiago
Interpretado por Merceditas Sung by Merceditas
Figure 6: Instinto.
28 Alan West-Dur�aan
Con su panuelo en la cabecita Kerchief on her head
¡Que mujercita en aquellos
tiempos!
Some kinda woman for those
times!
Con su frescura y su
movimiento
All so fresh, moving
real fine.
Esta cadencia que estas
escuchando
This cadence that you’re
hearing
Es distinto porque Instinto
lo esta cantando
Is distinct because Instinct is
singing it
¡Quirino Kirino
con su tres! (3·) with his tres!
[…] […]
Y aprovecho y pido ya So let’s ask for applause
Unos aplausos que sean verda Straight from the heart
Por Merceditas efun beya For Merceditas and her art,
Que si no es por ella no
canto na,
Efun beya
etc. If not for her, I wouldn’t be
singing at all.
(Instinto, in Various Groups, Cuban Hip Hop All
Stars—Volume 1, track no. 13; translation, AWD)
Instinto has performed a signifying critique of several elements
of the Guillen poem. Although they have kept the refrain (¡Kirino con
su tres!), the emphasis of the song is on Merceditas Valdez. Interest-
ingly, all physical references to Quirino are out: the big lips and the
nappy hair, the ability to dance, and the mulata who is ‘‘melting from
his charms.’’ Clearly, as an all-woman rap group, Instinto is rejecting
the attributes of physicality of the poem (in honesty to Guillen, his
reference to these traits is done in a positive manner), reflecting a
feminist consciousness that is against images that objectify women
(sexually and racially) through a metonymic exaggeration of the body.
Instinto describes Merceditas with her ‘‘panuelo en la cabecita’’
(the kerchief on her head) and follows with ‘‘¡Que mujercita en aquellos
tiempos!/Con su frescura y movimiento.’’ Later in the song, they ask for
the audience to applaud sincerely for Merceditas, because if not for her,
they (Instinto) would not be singing. It is both a heartfelt tribute to
Mercedes Valdez and a feminist revisioning of Quirino. Recall that the
Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues 29
mother Paula Valdes was a ‘‘tibia accesoria’’ (‘‘a tepid [or cool] acces-
sory’’) in the Guillen version, whereas for Instinto, Merceditas Valdez
becomes a fountain of creativity and inspiration for the group’s trio of
women. Instinto even upends (again, signifying) the use of diminutives
(cabecita and mujercita) that can often be used in a paternalistic or
condescending fashion (‘‘¡Que mujercita en aquellos tiempos!’’ ‘‘Some
kinda woman for those times!’’).
In the cover photograph to an album ‘‘Cuba: Merceditas Valdez y
los tambores bata de Jesus Perez,’’ we can visually discern the comments
made by Instinto. We see Merceditas Valdez dressed as a santera, all in
white, white kerchief on her head, and her necklaces (Figure 7). To her
left, against the wall is a beautiful statue of Ochun (la Virgen de la
Caridad del Cobre), the patroness of Cuba. In their song, when Instinto
Figure 7: Merceditas Valdez.
30 Alan West-Dur�aan
claim that they would not be singing if not for Merceditas, they rhyme that
line with a previous one that ends ‘‘efun beya,’’ an invocation to the lucumı
nation (Yoruba), but also with other connotations (the color white, which
is associated with Obatala, and the sign for death in the Yoruba divination
system) (Cabrera, 1986). So what was originally a sketch of solar
(tenement) life by Guillen has become with Instinto a tribute, an intertextual
reworking, as well as a statement of women’s creativity as emblem of
Cuba.4
Conclusions: Cuba’s New Age of Racial Assertions and RedefinitionsCuba’s rap scene has brought it closer to examining the Black
Atlantic connections of its music and culture. In being inspired by U.S.
rappers, Cubans have adopted many elements found in the music of
their North American counterparts: citation (sampling of sonic, verbal,
historical, and literary archives), an interrupted or discontinuous use of
time, and a complex situatedness that is physical, cultural, musical, and
political (Potter, 1995: 3–5, 53).
In their rapping and musical elaboration, they embody the concepts
of flow, layering, and ruptures in line (Jafa, as quoted by Rose, 1994: 38).
Equally significant, and also similar to the U.S., despite Cuban rap’s
affirmation of blackness, critique of racism, and embracing of Afro-
Cuban religions, its appeal crosses racial, class, and gender lines.
Still, many features of Cuban rap are unique to the island. There is
an absence of what is in the U.S. is known as gangsta rap, which points to
the social circumstances that blacks in Cuba experience and that despite
poverty and racism are not lived out in the harsh and bleak ghetto
environments of the U.S. If gangstas are ghetto-centric warriors, perhaps
the equivalent in Cuba would be the orisha warriors of Regla de Ocha like
Ochosi, Ogun, Elegua, and Chango. Indeed, the expression of Afrocentric
ideas in Cuba need not hark back to the real (or imagined) glories of an
African past but are a living, palpitating presence through the practice of
religion, music, and culture. Practicing santeros, particularly younger
ones, are now more inclined to worship the orishas as African and play
down the Catholic side of the religion (Fernandez Robaina, 2002). The
growth of Rastafarianism also points to this re-Africanization of Cuban
life but within the parameters of cubanıa.
Interestingly, in Cuban rap, the guapo, who would be the equiva-
lent of the rude boy from reggae or the nigga from gangsta rap, is not
particularly admired. In a song by Obsesion (‘‘Guapo’’), the guapo is
Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues 31
criticized, and counterexamples of guaperıa are given: the cimarron (run-
away slave) and Jimi Hendrix (Figure 8). Primera Base expresses similar
thoughts in songs like ‘‘En la calle’’ and ‘‘Malo.’’ In another tune by
Anonimo Consejo (‘‘Guapo como Mandela’’), a similar sentiment is
expressed within the context of the group’s creation, their art, and crea-
tivity, in this case upholding Nelson Mandela as the ‘‘guapo,’’ using the
phrase ‘‘Aquı llegue y no me voy/guapo como Mandela/como buen
cubano/junto a mi hermano’’; ‘‘Here I am and I’m not leaving/guapo
like Mandela/like a good Cuban/with my brothers’’).
Linguistically speaking, Cuban rappers have imported English
(and in some cases Yoruba) into their flow, a word often sprinkled into
Figure 8: Magia from Obsesion.
32 Alan West-Dur�aan
their lyrics untranslated. Some rappers are ingenious enough to even
rhyme across languages (‘‘listen to me/ya que estoy aquı’’ or ‘‘niche, ası
nacı/MC para todo el mundo aquı’’). But despite the use of certain slang
expressions (que bola [whassup], asere [friend or brother in Abakua],
etc.), one could not argue at this point that Cuban rap has vernacular(s)
similar to that of African-American (in contradistinction to standard
English). Cuba, unlike its French, English, and Dutch Caribbean neighbors,
never developed a Creole or patois, although Papiamento (spoken in
Curacao, Bonaire, and Aruba) does have a few Spanish words. One
could argue that Cuban Spanish does have a host of African words that
are already considered part of the Spanish language, but neither their
use nor preponderance points to a destabilizing or counter-hegemonic
expression.
The importation of certain English words has not been entirely
without incident. Deborah Pacini Hernandez and Reebee Garofalo men-
tion the scandal caused by Cuban rappers Primera Base in their use of the
word nigger in a song called ‘‘Igual que tu.’’ Clearly meant as a song
to express racial solidarity with African-Americans, the song is about
Malcolm X. U.S. rappers were furious—and rightfully so—at the improper
attribution of the word to someone of Malcolm’s stature. Robin D.G. Kelley
has described the term (written as ‘‘nigga,’’ not nigger, another mistake
made by Primera Base) as being different from the standard English writing
of it. In fact, it even transcends racial lines and is often used to describe
anyone from the ’hood and has come to mean any oppressed person from
the ghetto (Kelley, 1996: 209–11), a poignant lesson in the Black Atlantic
dialogue that urges us all to be cautious in understanding how Afrodiasporic
realities are seen, expressed, and represented.
Many raperos when performing will say ‘‘¡Pa’’ mis niches! ¡Pa0
mis negros!,’’ which again emphasizes a blackness that at other moments
in Cuban history would have been considered heretical. It is also matched
by the clothing worn (baggy pants, baseball hats, NBA jerseys, and
sneakers), hairstyles (dreadlocks), and body adornments, including tattoos.
Through these practices, they are expanding notions of Cuban blackness
by questioning previous models of African-Cuban respectability.
African-Cuban rappers are dynamically involved in redefining
themselves both as peoples of African descent and as Cubans, more so
than any other segment of Cuban society. They are working from the
premise—consciously or not—that Cuba, historically speaking, could
barely consider itself a nation if it treated such a large amount of its
Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues 33
population (blacks and mulattos) as second-class citizens. The Cuban
Revolution aimed to change that, but as Cuban raperos remind us, the
universalist and enlightenment dimensions (too abstract, for some) of its
revolutionary ideology have not been able to stamp out discrimination,
racism, and social exclusivism. What is fascinating is that the revolution
has also given Cuban rappers the tools (educational, cultural, and ideo-
logical) with which to analyze these problems.
Not all raperos agree on these issues. For example, Orishas, the best-
known group internationally, claim that Cuba’s racial problems are virtually
nonexistent (Matos, 2002b). Other groups, like S.B.S. (Sensational Boys of
the Street), seem to be completely oblivious to social concerns, at least as
expressed through their lyrics. These two groups are probably the only ones
that make any serious money as rappers. The Orishas live in France but travel
and perform often in Cuba, and S.B.S.’s waning popularity might soon
require qualifying the previous statement.
The issue of exploitation, spectacle, and appropriation of black
culture as profitable enterprise is not as big an issue in Cuba as has been
the case in the U.S., which has seen mainstream (white) culture appropriate,
at different stages, African-American music of all types (blues, jazz, the
origins of rock, soul, and rap). This is not to claim that these appropriations
have not happened in Cuba (R. Moore, 1997), but Afro-Cuban music, while
not always seen as central to Cuban music and culture, has certainly taken on
that role since the 1920s. The country’s three national musical expressions—
the danzon, the son, and the rumba—are progressively more African in their
forms and articulations and are not seen as questioning Cuban identity. On
the contrary, they are offered as affirmations of cubanıa. Rap clearly does not
have the stature of the danzon, the son, or rumba, at least not yet.
Cuba’s redefinition of blackness is a slow, contradictory process,
and it would be difficult to argue that there is a systematic, worked-out
theoretical position of what afrocubanıa means. As stated earlier, in part it
involves an Afrocentric approach to certain expressions (Regla de Ocha,
for example), and at others a reaffirmation of africanıa within a context of
national pride and Cuban-ness. In this sense, we can say that afrocubanıa
is both black and nationalist but not Black Nationalist in the U.S. sense
that often implies separatism. Perhaps Cuban redefinition of blackness is
beginning to examine the complexity expressed by Charles Mills, without
denying the physical, juridical, political, and social dimensions of race:
‘‘[R]oom has to be made for race as both real and unreal: that race can be
ontological without being biological, metaphysical without being physical,
34 Alan West-Dur�aan
existential without being essential, shaping one’s being without being in
one’s shape’’ (Mills, 1998: xiv). Mills’ words are a warning about the
philosophical tradition’s imbrication with white supremacy, an area that
Cuban thinkers and popular culture have yet to take on openly and
unapologetically, except in rare instances.
Cuban rap has been vigorous in attacking racism but for the
most part within the egalitarian claims of the revolution. By thoroughly
embracing rap, the Cuban raperos have sought to join the Black Atlantic
dialogue, and by doing so they have enlarged the notion of Cuban black-
ness as something that needs to be seen in an international context and
have sought a non-essentialist, nonhomogenous meaning of blackness. At
the same time, Cuba has nationalized rap within its own idioms (musical,
linguistic, and cultural), which is hardly surprising when you look at the
origins of the danzon, the son, and the rumba. Cuban rap is starting to
become as Cuban as Martı’s mustache and Merceditas Valdez’ panuelo.
What is most significant though is that African-Cuban raperos are
seriously questioning the mulataje-mestizo hypothesis as an organizing
metaphor of Cuban culture and society. While certainly Guillen never saw
the mulataje hypothesis as a mere whitening process, the way Guillen has
been put forth as a Cuban icon, poet, and racial thinker indicates that his
legacy has often been used as a cultural smokescreen to deny or avoid
discussing the undeniable racial disparities on the island. Cuban raperos,
in signifying on Guillen and other cultural sources, have ‘‘historicized,
contextualized and pluralized’’ afrocubanıa (West, 1993: 3) and, in doing
so, are showing how blackness in Cuba changes and acquires new political
and cultural dimensions. It also engages white Cubans to see whiteness as
a form of forgetting (and oppression) and, by stimulating a buried histor-
ical memory, implores and demands that the island see itself as a nation
with a ‘‘Cuban color’’ and an African heart.
Notes1. Pertaining to government involvement, two further comments are
germane. In September 2002, the Agencia Cubana de Rap, the ACR (The
Cuban Rap Agency), was formed to help train groups musically, help them
with recordings, and promote their work in the widest sense. To date, nine groups
are affiliated with the state enterprise. Groups must audition to join the ACR. At
the ninth festival (2003), many groups had never heard of the agency, nor were
they familiar with how to become part of it. With the demand for quality control
and the presence of over five hundred rap groups in the country, it remains to be
Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues 35
seen how the Agency will function as promoter or barrier for many groups.
Second, Cuban television, an important disseminator of popular music, is still
quite selective in the rap groups it presents, usually focusing on more commercial
types of rap or what is called regheton (often a bad equivalent of what might be
considered Jamaican dancehall at its most frivolous). Hard core rappers do not
even consider these groups as rappers. Elvira Rodrıguez Puerto, in her talk
(August 12, 2003), gave a classification of Cuban rap groups as follows: (1)
television rappers; (2) rappers living outside Cuba (like the Orishas); (3) rap
groups that belong to the ACR; (4) rappers that belong to the Asociacion
Hermanos Saız; and (5) street (or underground) rappers. Hers is an interesting
taxonomy for studying Cuban rap groups but is beyond the scope of this analysis.
2. See Pacini Hernandez and Garofalo article in the bibliography.
3. ‘‘Quien tiro la tiza?’’ produced a response song that basically tried to
minimize the class differences, stating that both were in the same boat by being black.
4. There are other female rap groups: Explosion Femenina, Mariana,
Diamara, and Las Krudas. The latter group is in-your-face feminist and Afro-
centric, with an extraordinary song about menstruation, ‘‘120 horas rojas cada
mes’’ (‘‘120 Red Hours Each Month’’). While I have not heard the song live (only
on compact disc), several local testimonies have mentioned instances of male
members of the audience trying to hide when they perform the song.
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Photo CreditsFigure 1, Alexey from Obsesion: Hector Delgado
Figure 2, Cuba Rap Festival, 2003: Hector Delgado
Figure 3, Movimiento magazine cover with Anonimo Consejo: Diamela Fernandez
Cutino
Figure 4, Back cover of Movimiento with Hermanos de Causa: Diamela Fernandez
Cutino
Figure 5, Soandry (Hermanos de Causa) with author: Hector Delgado
Figure 6, Instinto: Froi Cuesta
Figure 7, Merceditas Valdez: EGREM Archives
Figure 8, Magia from Obsesion: Hector Delgado
DiscographyEleyo. Sonando a Cuba. Unicornio (UN-CD9017), 2001.
Hermanos de Causa. La Causa Nostra. El Gao Production, 2003.
Las Krudas. Cubensi. Self-produced, 2003.
Obsesion. Un monton de cosas. Egrem (CD-0375), 2001.
38 Alan West-Dur�aan
Orishas. A lo cubano. Universal Surco (012159571-2), 2000/1998.
Orishas. Emigrante. Universal Surco (440,018456-2), 2002.
Primera Base. Igual que tu. Caribe Productions (CD 9242), 1997.
Punto Cero. Punto cero. Bis Music (CD 232), 2001.
S.B.S. Guacha y guaracha. Vale Music (VLCD949), 2000.
S.B.S. Mami, dame carne. Universal Music (LATD-40155), 1999.
S.B.S. Sigue al lıder. Fonovisa (FPCD-9894), 1999.
Sin Palabras. Orishas Dreams. Bis Music (CD 195), 2000.
Trıo Hel. Aguita de Coco. Bis Music Artex, SA (CD-188), 2000.
Various Groups. Cuban Hip Hop All Stars—Volume 1. Papaya Records (includes
Cuarta Imagen, Hermanos de Causa, Reyes de la Calle, Explosion
Suprema, Alto y Bajo, Bajo Mundo, Anonimo Consejo, Junior Clan y
Grandes Ligas, Obsesion, Justicia, 100% Original, and Instinto), 2001.
Rap’s Diasporic Dialogues 39